


Edradîn

by HSR (helena_s_renn)



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Fear Play, M/M, Sounding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-02
Updated: 2012-08-02
Packaged: 2021-02-23 13:53:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23712538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helena_s_renn/pseuds/HSR
Summary: Aragorn wants to try a toy. He has not revealed all of his upbringing to Boromir, not yet.
Relationships: Aragorn | Estel/Boromir (Son of Denethor II)
Kudos: 8





	Edradîn

**Author's Note:**

> If you are unfamiliar with the concept of 'sounds' (see warnings), you can read up on it starting here: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sound_(medical_instrument)
> 
> Elvish:  
> edra- S., N. v. to open edro S., N. v. imp.  
> dîn II N. n. opening, gap, pass in mountains  
> panna- I N. inf. panno N. v. to open, to enlarge  
> aduial S. n. the evening, time of star-opening, "evendim" LotR/D ad + uial "second twilight"
> 
> I made up the following terms using Elvish (Sindarin) words and parts of words found at this website: http://www.jrrvf.com/hisweloke/sindar/index.html. I make no claims as to understanding Elvish. If you wish to correct me, that is fine.  
> Made-up words used for “sounds(s)” in this fic:  
>  _edradîn_ \- a sound simply for entering  
>  _pannadîn_ \- a sound for stretching, probably graduated sizes  
>  _edra-aduial_ \- a sound that gives much pleasure (star-opening), possibly producing orgasm  
> Note: The choice of word would be by context, not necessarily by the shape or size of the sound(s) being used. It could change minute by minute.
> 
> No disrespect intended to the Tolkien estate.  
> Cross-posting from my old LJ. Original publication date used.

During the peak of summer, humid sea air borne on spiraling southwesterly winds melted the upper levels of Minas Tirith in the heat, and top towers of the Citadel felt like roasting ovens inside. Many centuries before, rooms had been cut out of the white marble of the mountain, enough and more to house the royal family and their households. It was one of the many forgotten secrets of the realm, known of only by Gandalf once the line of Stewards forgot its existence. The entrance tunnel had caved in during a rare earthquake, and thanks to wars and procrastination and a certain miserly minister of coin several hundred years before, the knowledge was lost.

Climbing the mountain in search of the scion of the White Tree, Aragorn had happened upon one of the ancient flues built through the rock to allow smoke to escape. He’d actually put a foot into it, and only got away without a broken shin or wrenched knee with sheer balance and luck. Adrenalin rush fading, he’d gone to his knees and explored the void with his hands. Made of stone, square, too regular to be a natural formation. He’d watched the uneven ground and chanced upon two more of the structures before finding the seedling it had been foretold was waiting for him.

The times were such that he didn’t think of it again for many months. There were mouths to feed, a city to rebuild, a few remaining bands of orcs to hunt down. And of course, there was Boromir. Aragorn’s days were filled with the business of running a kingdom, and sometimes his nights too, for he had an heir to get. But the day did come when he remembered again the odd, deep, narrow shafts going down deep into the old summit, and he requested an audience with Gandalf the White. So it was that he learned of the Summerhalls within the mountain.

Since it wasn’t a priority, the labor did not begin for several years. There were still some dwarves in the city, and once started, the rubble was cleared and supports and walls were rebuilt in much less time. There was no natural light, something Aragorn’s Elvish wife found disturbing. While now human, the heat did not bother her as much as it did true mortals. So it came to be that the King and his Consort had summer rooms, as did many, in the cool of the stone depths. One thing he liked best, besides relief from the heat and humidity, was that inside, with the heavy doors barred, no one could hear his lover's screams.

For days, Aragorn had been insinuating that he had something. Something extraordinary. The slight twitch of his brow and sly sideways slide of his eyes made it evident it was something... sexual. The little frisson of nerves – excitement and the unknown element – had Boromir ready long before they locked themselves in their chamber. Aragorn watched him undress, eyes running over his flesh, comparing and measuring, saying nothing. Then he bound him fast to the bed.

As many times as he’d been naked before Aragorn, Boromir had never felt so at his mercy. It aroused him, being tied, and there was no way to stop it or hide it. They both prized his helpless erections’ drizzling and spurting whenever he was put in a defenseless position. Only, the introduction of the object, at first, had done the opposite. He was just as mortified to have shriveled, but his cock was less interested in Aragorn’s present idea of exploration than hiding altogether. Boromir, having been told Aragorn held in his hand and what to expect only breaths before, was grateful for the bonds which lashed his wrists to rings set in the headboard and his knees as wide as they could go with a bar, lest he be caught with limbs shaking in fear. This must have been expected, for there wasn’t the slightest acknowledgment of his flaccid state. Aragorn calmly removed his clothes, dropping them where they fell, easy movements of a man at home with authority.

“You will not come until I give you permission, or you’ll run the risk of damaging yourself... and not without pain.” Having survived the three arrows that nearly ended his life and plenty of battle wounds before that, Boromir was afraid of little in the way of pain. This, though... The forbidden gleam of pure mithril didn’t lessen the effect. Perfectly smooth, the polished rod half again the length of Aragorn’s hand from heel to middle fingertip was the diameter of a knitting needle. One end was blunted and rounded; the other formed a teardrop-shaped bulb the thickness of his thumb pad, decorated with a chunk of blue crystal. It petrified the Steward to his toenails. ‘You will not come’? Boromir couldn’t imagine it. Not today.

Handling the rod carefully, Aragorn settled himself on the bed between Boromir’s open legs. The nearer he came, the harder it became to not scream. Perhaps that was why the King moved in slow shifts, eyes darting here and there around the room, over Boromir’s body and face, the lit candles, and the object held in his fingers by increments.

“Where did you get such a thing?” Boromir whispered hoarsely. Anything to delay. He’d been told in a quiet, matter-of-fact avowal where it was going to be inserted, but nothing more yet.

Close enough that his exhaled breath spread warmth across Boromir’s chest as he spoke, Aragorn explained, first uncapping a metal box of salve. The scent was known well by Boromir, who could never-the-less scarce believe that his cock twitched at his brain’s olfactory recognition.

“This is a medical device. Sometimes, if a man takes injury to his private parts, the healing does more damage than the wound.” This concept would make any man cringe. “Scars on the inside of,” there was a certain hand gesture suggesting a cylindrical shape, “the male organ is a life of misery. If they are too bad, he may not even be able to pass his water. The Elves invented these, which they call by several names, most commonly ‘ _edradîn_ , long ago. It is used to maneuver or stretch,” Boromir winced, hard, “the tissues minutely, to keep them flexible. If one is stretching, using a larger size then previous, then the instrument is referred to as ‘ _pannadîn_ ’. And, when the time is right, it can be used to reintroduce pleasure. That is the ‘ _edra-aduial_ ’. There are also different shapes; some are bent.” The hearing of words insinuating a certain type of satisfaction on the tongue of his lover made Boromir’s cock roll to one side and look up.

“Do I need to truss _him_ up, too?” Aragorn leered.

“As you will, my lord,” whispered the Steward. He seemed to gather himself, and spoke again, with more strength. “How did you learn of these? Would they not be a closely guarded secret?”

“The knowledge is kept by a few, mainly because the technique must be perfect. The crafting of the rods, as well. And cleanliness is extremely important, more-so than for the average wound. There is no official word for them in the tongues of Men. But you forget, I am also Elven-trained as a healer. My foster father, Lord Elrond, was determined that his novices learn by example, and learn by practicing on ourselves when possible, on our fellows when not. I perfected stitching a wound by stitching my own. Mixing medicines is a skill best learned by trial and NO errors; I retched up the products of my own miscalculations more than once. But certain skills, like setting bones or removing and treating poisoned arrows, those sorts of things were ones that a person would not be able to do, usually, for him or herself. Nor _edradîn_.” His forehead wrinkled; Boromir knew there was more. “I’ve taken to calling them ‘sounds', after the idea of sounding, to determine the depth of water.”

“Into the depths, yes. And did you have such an injury?” Boromir wanted to know. Surely he’d have noticed a scar there.

“Nay... not I. Another apprentice healer. An Elf. He looked... much like Elrond, actually. Noldorian, dark of hair. Full Elven though, from a respected family. But he was young, not much past his age of majority. There are not so many young ones now; most of the Elves remaining in Middle Earth when I was born had been alive for centuries... millennia. He was victim of an orc ambush, and the whole of Rivendell mourned for it was assumed he would be disfigured for eternity, or that he would fade and die. Elves can heal over time from almost any wound, until only faint scars remain, if it doesn’t kill them outright. But they cannot regenerate limbs, and for a male to be so wounded, half-severed... Like losing a lover, they would rather not live.”

Boromir had it on the tip of his tongue to make a jest about men (and likely Elves) and their right hands, but Aragorn was so solemn, he said instead, “So then, there was someone. You knew him.”

Blinking, the King replied slowly. “Yes. The Elf I mentioned. I was young myself. Would you say that human males become physically mature at what age? Thirteen, fourteen... fifteen at the oldest? I was eighteen then, still untouched other than by my own hand and impatient in every sense of the word. Elrond brought me to the chamber of this dreadfully mauled, but otherwise perfect Elf. He’d been slashed with a scimitar across the groin; it was almost a miracle in itself that his belly and main arteries were not hit. There was some injury to the muscles in his upper thighs, as well, however these were secondary. Elrond had been at work for days with little sleep; I could see he was exhausted but he shrugged off my offering of a revitalizing draught and tugged me into a room, telling me to be silent and only observe. Like I said, I’d learned many things by then and had taken enough battle wounds, and had treated worse than I’d suffered. I’d attended two birthings, and had seen Elves and Men die of wounds too dire to be healed. This, though...” he trailed off.

“Tell me.” Boromir sensed that it was long buried, this tale.

“I was enraged,” Aragorn growled, “when Elrond pulled back the sheet. That such a thing would be inflicted upon that Elf. His kind. His gender. His sex. Elrond explained everything and confirmed that he had lost one of his... Elves refer to them in their own language as stones, or jewels, similar to men. One was enough to procreate, but... his Elfhood suffered such damage. Bruising, and a deep cut, though both of the great swelling parts. Luckily the inner tube was mostly intact, only nicked in one spot. Like any male, especially young ones, his organ had its own mind. Elrond had to keep him in reverie for days. Finally they were able to stop the bleeding, and somehow, put in stitches or bindings that held. Elves do have salves that keep the skin supple but this was so delicate of a thing. Elrond explained the injuries and all he had done, and when he finished, I found myself on my knees in the corner, weeping.

“It was quite likely the Elf was a virgin, too. They often will have some experience with other young ones just for release, before finding a mate. He wouldn’t have had many to choose from, though. While I was belatedly mourning the loss of his physicality, Elrond brought out a set of thin, gleaming rods,” Aragorn held the one in his hand up for a moment, “and explained what must be done. I was horrified. By the time he was finished, I’m sure I was curled on the floor with my hands quite uncompromisingly cupping my groin.”

Boromir stated drily, “As would I be, had I the freedom to do so.”

“You may surprise yourself yet,” the King informed him. “Elrond demonstrated the process. He made me repeat it, under a sharp eye. I had never touched another’s private parts before. It was a strange mix of excitement and horror as I watched the _edradîn_ going in.” He shook himself. “And that, I kept very much to myself, for I knew that what I was doing was crucial for him to function again later. For the next few days, I used _edradîn_ and _pannadîn_ on Sennegir-that was his name-morning and evening. He was still kept under reverie. Then he awoke and, suffice it to say it was not easy. He was in shock, he mourned the loss of his perfect form, and he was angry, much like I when first seeing him so torn and wounded. He hated me, too, for seeing him thus. And for being the one who held the sound. I was not the Master Healer, only an insignificant human, and he howled at me more than once to get out. Of course, my identity was hidden all those years. Elrond would step in if he was unreasonable. But I was required to resume the treatment, each time.”

Nodding, Boromir wondered how this would end, if he would be jealous or thankful, or both. However long it took him to finish his story today, the telling being so much shorter than the living of it many years ago. His lover had lived a life in some ways unlike his, and much longer. There were no rumors of the healers of Minas Tirith practicing methods like what was being described. How many more surprises would Aragorn spring on him, before the end? His own fear, while forestalled, was not any less.

“It took many months for him to finally heal enough to be allowed to respond. I’m not sure how else to put it. If his wounds would have reopened, there would have been no way to repair them a second time. Elrond had some sort of potion for this too, to keep him ‘down’. So, how surprised we both were when one day there was a small surge of life as I threaded an edradin, plus two _pannadîn_ of slightly larger widths, into him. He was appalled, and I froze, till he knocked my hand away. That was not so wise. Had he not been in bed, the sound’s weight pulling down would have done much worse damage. I removed it, and fled. Elrond listened to my demand to be relieved of that particular duty, and denied it. Sennegir had his own request, also denied. What Elrond said was that all healers needed to learn how to handle a physical response, better sooner than later for me. And for Sennegir, though he didn’t want to hear it, it was hopeful news.

“We learned to take in stride that sometimes he would stay totally soft, it was a medical invasion, after all, but sometimes his Elfhood would try to harden. There was pain with this, possibly part of the reason he reacted so strongly the first time. But we were instructed to continue, so morning and evening, I would sound him carefully, and if he became tumescent, I would follow his lead, stroking him gently on the inside and on the outside till he whimpered, for we would not overstress still-healing cavernosa, and then I would take my aching self to the next room and find the release he could not. In that, I pitied him. He hated that, too.

“One morning, I came in to perform the procedure and Sennegir would not allow it. Elves are not weak, even when bedridden and wounded. This I can tell you because he shoved me away from him with such force that I went through a closed wooden door. Elrond was called in again, while I sulked and felt like a failure and Sennegir glared at me being allowed in the room for the consultation. He sheets were spattered with blood and what looked like pus – and come. He’d come off in his... sleep, or reverie. Agog, I ungracefully asked Elrond, “Elves do that?”

Both men had to laugh. For the answer was a qualified “yes.” Boromir relaxed a little, finally. His male parts were no longer trying to pull up into the safety of his pelvic cavity.

“However, it had hurt him a lot, and that was one reason for Sennegir’s fit of temper. All we could do was keep on stretching his tissues, minutely, daily, and wait for full recovery. Elrond informed me of certain other things I didn’t know about until then, too. The pleasure gland on the inside, I mean. Specifically that I could reach it with an _edra-aduial_.”

A surprised noise erupted from Boromir’s throat, quickly muffled. “I knew about the other way,” he began unevenly, blushing. “You got me there the first time, and every, when you want to. It’s not so big, though, the spot.” He had plenty of experience finding Aragorn’s, as well. “So how...?”

The healer was smiling. That was the exact question he wanted. “Funny thing, how that works. From the back, it is just rubbing over it. But with a rod going in like that,” again he motioned, “that tube goes through the middle of it somehow. So, the sound strokes the middle of it, if you can get in deep enough.”

“Then why wouldn’t you?”

“If you’re too hard, your manhood will not bend down enough. It’s not a straight line in there, more of a curve.”

“Oh. So have you... did anyone do it to you?”

“No. I did it to myself.” Aragorn kept his expression open, only showing patience and he hoped, trustworthiness.

“But... why?” Boromir nearly sputtered.

“After some months, Sennegir was able to be up and around, and he would seek out the healers’ quarters twice daily for his treatment. Only, there came a time it was not ‘treatment’ and it no longer pained him. He would come so that I could... help him release. He was afraid to do it on his own, or with another Elf, for what if something went wrong, what if the pain returned? He had nightmares sometimes. I knew that physically, he was fully healed. There was no discernable ridge of scar tissue, and only the faintest mark across the delicate flesh. I worried for him, that he would never get around the fear. He was relying upon the sounds, afraid to have normal functioning. So, I made a deal with him: I would use the _edradîn_ on myself where he could see, if he would pleasure himself at the same time using only his hand. He agreed.”

It seemed that Aragorn would say no more for a long moment. Boromir, avid, prompted, “Well that's... intimate. And?”

“There’s nothing quite like it. I’m surprised I didn’t piss myself before I even started, I was that scared. So I used the thinnest rod we had and a lot of the salve and... let it slide in. You can’t push, it’s almost like dropping it. Remember, I’d never been fucked, but it felt like that, being fucked. Invasive. And weird and... I remember slowing down, scared to touch the gland – I was not the least bit hard. But then, there it was. My cock went from floppy to plank and I had to get the _edra-aduial_ out fast but even as I did a gush of seed followed it and I thought I’d pass out.” He grinned, couldn’t help it. “In the meantime, Sennegir was watching keenly and, I’m happy to report, he followed me to completion soon after, with no help from me or anything foreign.”

Another pause, now from Boromir: “My lord, if you don’t mind me asking, would it not have been more pleasurable to have found relief together?”

“Perhaps. But he was an Elf, and I was a Man. I was his healer, effectively; I was too young; he did not want to bond with me, so that was the end of it. Soon after, I was sent out into the wild. I did not meet him again until... Until the council of Elrond.”

Boromir’s eyes flew open. “He was there?”

“He was. We did not greet each other in any manner except formally. He has a mate now. I was told,” the certain stress in the phrase told Boromir it was Arwen who had relayed the news to Aragorn, “that he took the last ship from the Gray Havens, when most of Rivendell’s Elves departed.”

Boromir nodded and bowed his head. As he tipped his head forward, his hair, unbound and let to grow long in the past years, fell forward to conceal his face. Behind the antique-gold-shot-with-pyrite strands, Aragorn started at the fierce mix of fear, determination, and want in the heavily-lidded green depths. Below that, flared nostrils, a curled lip showing canines, and a tense body which mutedly reflected the dancing flames of the candles. Battle-hardened musculature showed its edges: Boromir in his willingness to be brought through darkness into light. All this: allowing him. Aragorn had felt that, the first time they had touched in some pitch-black corner of Moria.

“Then I command you, do not try to fight it, any of it, what I’m going to do to you. Simply allow yourself to feel...” Before his voice cracked, Aragorn damped his words. He divided the unruly forelock, tucking the two sections behind pointed ears. “Your mother’s blood sings strong in you,” he couldn’t help commenting, which drew a sharp look. “A lost tribe, Nimrodel’s kin, are thought to have spent time in Dol Amroth, waiting years for a ship to port at the southern Havens. Some few never left.”

“They never took ship. None remain in Dol Amroth now.”

“But they did intermingle with your maternal line, isn’t that true?”

“So it is believed in family legend.”

“Even in the North, it was said your mother was beyond the measure of even the fairest of highborn ladies.” Boromir’s gaze wandered to the object in Aragorn’s hand, then to his cock, jutting like a weapon, then skittered to his face. “You would discuss our mothers... thusly?” His eyes darted again to the King’s erection and away.

If Aragorn heard the question, he answered tacitly in the affirmative. “You heard some of my history during Elrond’s council. I’ve told you more. My mother was human. Dunedain, although her years were too short.... Even as she took me and fled to Rivendell following the death of my father, she was not yet considered of age. Still, I was lucky to have her there for the years of my youth. She helped Elrond’s healers, as well, during my childhood. Perhaps my aptitude was inherited from her. If I’d been any other man, she could have married again. Had she been an Elf, she could have sailed to the White Shores. Though I was away when it happened, it is said she... she faded.”

“As did mine. Or so some say.”

Boromir’s hushed voice broke Aragorn’s reverie. For a moment, he had forgotten where they were, and the business at hand. “All that remains is a statue in her likeness in a garden on Rivendell’s outer grounds, to mark her passage.”

“Yes, I saw.” This, Boromir mentioned for the first time. Though his feelings were long resolved, the turbulence he had experienced upon meeting Isildur’s heir had caused certain undignified behavior at the time.

“Oh?”

It was the Ranger who challenged him head-on; Boromir’s body reacted as it had all those years ago, with new sweat and the vibration of un-asked-for heat between his legs.

Aragorn narrowed his eyes. “Is that the sort of respect you show the mother of a King?”

“It is the respect I show for you.” No hesitation or flicker of doubt brooked this answer. “That you sought solitude there... once I understood who she, the statue, was, I could only marvel, and wish to be able to do the same.” He looked far away, into his memories. “Just another of my father’s many rules. No reminder, no mention, was allowed of Finduilas.”

“Such a shame. You were only five when...” Aragorn shook his head. “As I said, I had many years. And now, it is unlikely I will see her face in stone more than once or twice more in my lifetime.”

“So then, have her brought here,” said Boromir, the thought manifesting on his lips. “Surely there are still some who travel the Northern reaches.”

Aragorn smiled at his lover’s thoughtfulness. The moment drew out, and he reached out to trail a hand from Boromir’s wrist to his shoulder, then down the warm torso. He mulled it over, picturing the marble statue in its place under evergreens, draped with fronds, forever melancholy, but in the end decided, “No, as much as it tempts me, the White City was never her home. It would be an unnecessary burden, and would be selfish of me. But I thank you for your concern.”

“We have the finest masons and stone carvers in Gondor... you need but say the word.” This was the Steward speaking, a man with the authority and will to make it so.

“I’ve a better idea. We will commission a figure of Finduilas. Have you ever seen... in a drawing or painting?”

Boromir’s eyes welled up. “Once. My uncle slowed me.” He sighed, deeply. “She was also young. What shadows so crushed her that she would leave her children behind? There were rumors about yet when I was old enough to understand, despite the gag order. Some say she locked herself away in the dark. Others, that she threw herself from the Citadel, or that she suffered a miscarriage and bled to death, or it was ‘only’ a wasting sickness. I do not know the truth of it.” The man’s voice was pained, as Aragorn had heard it only once before. “Only whispers.”

“I wish I knew the truth to give you. Maybe it died with Denethor, or perhaps there is some healer yet living who could stand to unburden him- or herself of what has to have been a heavy secret.”

“I cannot, even now, trust to hope for that answer,” Boromir began, “but an honorarium in her name – it would do Faramir good. And me.”

“You can trust to hope, Boromir. After all, that is one of my many names: Estel. That is the name Sennegir knew me by. If there is anyone who has knowledge, we will find them. For now, trust to me,” he held up the thin silvery-white shaft, “to make you forget this past unhappiness, and bear in mind what is important.” Forget the past darkness; remember the binding gratification of their love.

Taking a moment to anoint the top half of the rod in a generous layer of the salve, Aragorn closed the final distance, grasping Boromir’s shaft, which swelled at his touch in his off hand. It was a joy for him to see the effect, the lengthening, filling, small veins flickering with pulse. At the tip, the tiny slit, where he would enter his lover. A few leisurely strokes and Boromir flexed his hips in response. Aragorn allowed his circled fingers to slide up the velvet cylinder a final time, till he was pinching the head just lightly. His goal, to open the slit, achieved, he brought the highly polished, narrow round end of the mithril rod to that which he would sheath it in.

“No!” Boromir cried out.

Pausing, Aragorn looked into the flushed face opposite. This was not the word chosen as a failsafe. There had been other times when Boromir had told him no or stop in fun, or because he knew that his resistance made Aragorn burn with lust. His dissent was a reflexive reaction to an unnatural act, and his mind was still fighting the perpetration of it upon him: that was how Aragorn interpreted it.

Shifting the angle of the mithril straw, Aragorn spoke again. “Are you sure about that?” He received no answer but heavy panting. Boromir’s eyes were shut tightly. His body did not try to pull away, not that it really had anywhere to go. “I will begin now. If you cannot bear it, use your word.”

So slowly he barely moved, Aragorn angled the _edradîn_ vertical and inserted tip into tip. Highly polished but smeared with slippery lubricant, the sound dropped infinitesimally on its own. Boromir hissed through bared teeth. “Aaah...! Fuck!”

“That’s what I’m doing.” Gravity allowed another small measure of the sound to disappear. It looked horrible to the untrained eye, and Aragorn, having the same organ himself, could not help but cringe inwardly. Nor could he help the trickles of fluid escaping his cock, holding on sticky-hot till the weight plopped them to the sheet. With the metal wand plugging Boromir’s inner tube, any moisture would be dammed till he freed it. Heady, overpowering almost, such potential... Aragorn stilled his hand to prevent himself from ramming the rod in and pumping it. Instead, he applied the slightest pressure to the bulb at the top. Boromir tossed his head, groaning from deep in his belly.

This first time, it took many long minutes to reach the bend in Boromir’s urethra, each of them marked by a millimeter of mithril sliding into the darkening sex. Contemplating going the extra step to touch his lover’s sweet spot on the first slide in, Aragorn decided against it; saving it till later would make it more of an indulgence. Rather, he pulled back, not quite as slowly as the invading movement. Feeling this change, Boromir’s body gave away his relief. Though his eyes remained shut tight, by the movement behind the lids, Aragorn knew they had rolled back in his head.

“Get it out... please, get it out,” pleaded Boromir in a strangely tight voice.

“Mm-hmmmm.” The rod emerged, shinier than ever. Mixed in, toward the far end, were stringy streaks of whitish secretions. Ah. Seeing this, Aragorn’s cock pulsed hard. “You turn me on... I’m so hard...” he said simply.

The last bit of the sound pulled free; in its wake, some lubricant, but more of Boromir’s natural offering. It welled up from the unnaturally rounded slit-hole like a candle running over, and Aragorn bent down to lick.

“Oh Morgoth’s seven hells, suck it!” Boromir demanded.

Maybe he allowed the words, but Aragorn was not about to give in to that. He took his time kissing the head, licking into the aperture, circling the crown with his tongue. Every little gasp, quiver, and curse was to be relished and cherished, but he would have his way. Just as Boromir eagerly pushed forward into what he thought would be a hot mouth, he was treated to a second invasion. Faster this time, but still steady-paced, Aragorn dropped the _edradîn_ into the upright erection.

There was a surprised whuff, then Boromir keened. Eerie, it was. A lost soul in the night. Though the hairs on the back of his neck tingled, Aragorn had to chuckle to himself. It was a man with his cock skewered on a sound. As well he should be making a lot of noise.

Careful, careful, the once-healer reminded himself. He slowed as the wand went further in. Boromir’s noises defied description. His abdominal muscles trembled. When he tried to thrust, feeling the sound impaling him with each movement, he halted. Half a dozen jerky ratchets later, his tongue flicked out to swipe thin pink lips, then he pleaded, “What... please... more, there’s more, right... please...!”

“Oh yes... there is. And I’ll give it to you,” Aragorn was practically moaning, himself. Watching his lover’s body subtly surge, he too wanted to writhe in the passion of his own heat. Just a little more torture, a little more friction... he pushed very gently on the shiny mithril teardrop, which came closer to Boromir’s thin, stretched skin. This was what he had wanted, all those years ago. Not only to have a useful purpose for the _edradîn_ , but to use it in this way, as an _edra-aduial_ , to tease and touch untouchable places on his lover and make him erupt till he passed out. “If you were softer, I could touch your sweet spot with a different sort, on the inside,” he murmured with some regret. “Perhaps it was poor planning on my part. With your manhood this... excited, it won’t bend to the angle necessary.”

When Boromir swallowed, the King’s mouth tingled with the saliva that welled up in his oral cavity. “Do you think most men would find this enjoyable?”

Aragorn didn’t know about most men, because most didn’t know about these objects, much less this use of them. “Most men would not be open to being penetrated at all. To having their cock invaded, most definitely not.” To emphasize, he pushed the rod a little further, pressing Boromir’s erection more horizontal to reach maximum depth. “And I’d need a longer _edra-aduial_!” he gasped, breath coming in strangled puffs.

Green eyes slitted enough to look at him. “No, it’s long enough.”

Aragorn pushed the mithril home, as far as it went, and began the backward glide. Boromir’s growled curses fired the pit of his belly, as did the evidence of additional fluids on the thin bar. This part, the relief, was clearly Boromir’s favorite. His eyes shut tight again, and he grew more rigid. “Please, get it out now...!”

“Are you going to cum?” Aragorn whispered.

“Maybe...”

That was the dig, not knowing. Having the exit door effectively barred, as well as the unnatural method, muddled one’s awareness. Every little rise in arousal level was potentially dangerous. Aragorn was practiced at reading his lover’s responses; it would not be yet. Not quite yet. He would have to keep a close eye and acute awareness. If he didn’t utterly lose it first.

There would be no momentary respite this round. In the end, he left the last finger-width of the _edradîn_ imbedded, so that none of the dammed-up juices could escape. Groaning, Boromir protested wordlessly when he felt the change in direction. He trembled as the unbending shaft went into his again, clenched and flexed his muscles, but there was nothing he could do. His lover watched so avidly, his head and eyes on that central event, that his harsh, panting breaths cascaded directly onto Boromir’s thighs, groin, and lower belly in humid rushes had he not been so overheated, it would have risen gooseflesh on him. Even so, all of the hairs on that part of his body stirred, the tiny threads of muscles pulling tight.

The power rush threatened to unman Aragorn; he had to stop for his own sake - his hand was becoming unsteady. Inspiration struck, and he took his hand away. The other man’s hips surged forward as far as their limited range would allow, but now nothing was pressing back against him, into him. Aragorn’s fingers worked at his bindings, freeing the left hand, then the right, then his ankles. He went in for a long, deep kiss, pressing his torso into the smooth, flushed flesh, his tongue into the pink, out of breath mouth. He’d never, ever get enough of that taste, nor the sensation of getting it back in kind. However polite, however controlled he was in public, behind closed doors Boromir’s tongue was dirty-sweet and aggressive, and he couldn’t get enough of it skittering over his teeth to curl with his. Pinning the Steward against the headboard with his body, Aragorn wallowed in just kissing his mate for long minutes. The minute shifts of Boromir’s neck and head, the striving lips, everything, that want that was as strong as his, felt like molten victorious exhilaration in his veins, and every pulse began and ended in his cock. Sandwiched between them, painfully taut flesh and unbending metal pointed straight up.

“Hands and knees...” Aragorn broke off for air and gave his directive.

A pained look flitted across his Steward’s face. “It’s still in...”

“You don’t trust me to... unstopper you in time?” Burying his face in the side of Boromir’s neck, Aragorn unleashed his teeth and lips, till a dark bruise marred the fair skin.

“Ah...! Ah...! I don’t doubt... your intensions.” With some careful positioning, Boromir pulled his man in tighter, fingers curved around his arse cheeks, their cocks mashed together and becoming sticky with Aragorn’s run-off. With the rod still in his, Boromir made certain there was little room to move. While it still scared him, the thought of one shift in the wrong direction, it quietly thrilled him, how Aragorn leaked secretions enough for both while his were locked in, till...

Finding himself suddenly wrestled face down, Boromir turned his head around with an insolent grin and raised his arse. Partly because he didn’t want damage, partly to tease his mate, he spread his knees and let his erection sway there, _edradîn_ sticking out, not touching the sheet. “Fuck me,” he egged Aragorn on, but the man was already looming over him, fingering his hole, stretching it, giving him a digit, then two, then three.

“Let it work its own way out,” came the hot breath in his ear. “Hold yourself, if you need to, but do not pull it. You’ll have to hold back till it’s free.”

Fuck. Aragorn taking him from behind excited Boromir almost as much as doing the same to the ranger. There had only been a handful of times, back before he’d nearly died of arrow wounds and guilt, but it had kept him sane; thinking of a man, of their covert rutting, even of love, rather than the Ring. He’d rarely been taken in his life before that – as Captain of Gondor, who was fit to claim his submission? Aragorn had – had put him into this same position and held him there, rough and unyielding, till the resentment and the fight had gone out of him, and covered his mouth with a half-gloved hand and entered his body and mind... these things coursed though Boromir’s mind, in the same position now, as it always did.

With Aragorn, however, there was no more ‘eventual’. He couldn’t wait; the longest he paused was to slick himself with more of the salve from the box, smearing the last between the upturned cheeks before him. Grabbing one of Boromir’s hips and the opposite shoulder, he gave in to his own needs. He sank in, had to stop. A few tiny in-and-out motions led to a slight loosening, just enough to move. While his Steward had been trussed and scared, eventually convinced by his remembrances, all that time he had been raging-hard and needy with anticipation. In a frenzy, he gave in and rode the storm of his screaming urges. Again and again he thrust into heat and rippling muscle all around him.

Though he was often the less vocal of the two, Boromir could not keep silent. His groans echoed around the stone room, layering one over the next and the next. He sounded, he thought, like a man close to death – or the best orgasm of his life. And another thing was certain, too. It was more of an itch, a tickle. A counterpoint to the cock that slid in again and again, rubbing at his inner gland. Then the sound was sliding from him, slower than thawing honey. The silvery shaft protruded from his thicker, purple-red one, the azure crystal throwing sparks in the dancing light. Boromir didn’t know if he could bear it. But he had to. The sensitized inner tube’s nerves told him of each minute increment toward his eventual freedom. Why he didn’t reach down between his legs and remove it – only because he’d been directed not to. And, he anticipated relief so much he was willing to wait. It was only seconds longer. All the while, Aragorn pumped at him frantically, grabbing and scratching and pressing against his back.

The mithril rod finally slithered out of him and fell free. Clear fluids ran from his slit in a torrent, wetting the sheet. It was in only being ‘unstoppered’, as Aragorn had put it, that he could sense just how much had build up behind that metal. The tasty pre-cum droplets, poured, almost like real cum, but not quite. For a moment, his balls felt lighter, but the tender relief of that led to the next clench for the real load. Then Aragorn pushed up into him so hard, banging his sweet spot and hissing of love and he exploded. Boromir arched and let go of control, screaming release. Like the way Aragorn had described it, it was as if the sound had held back the flood and was removed just in time. Juices filled him, tickling in strong, hot spurts. Feeling it, his man’s love poured out, he took joy in how they were both getting off so hard in gushes and cries, and how it had come about.

Boromir wouldn’t have said he blacked out, but he was sated and dazed for a good while, vision fuzzed, drifting, not wanting to move. The mithril rod - _edradîn_ and _edra-aduial_ for him, though he was sure that soon enough Aragorn would ask him to subject himself to _pannadîn_ , too - lay where it had fallen from him, pressed against the back of his right thigh. The cool air floated over and around him, gradually bringing him back. When he could think again, one slow thread of memory or initiative at a time at first, he replayed the strange, mostly one-sided conversation.

“Did you love him?”

“Who?”

“That Rivendell Elf, the one that was hurt.”

Beside him, Aragorn turned his eyes from their unfocused studying of the ceiling to his face. “Sennegir? No, nothing like that. He was a difficult patient, which, considering, was no surprise. He was many lessons for me. I was a few for him.”

“So, it wasn’t because of him that Elrond turned you out?”

“No. And he didn’t turn me out. I had to fulfill my obligations. Men and Elves are quite capable of living at peace, but until I rejoined the Dunedain, I had no idea of human culture. Human relations.”

Boromir snorted at that. “Then you learned.”

“I did. I had good teachers.”

“You’re such a slut.”

“Oh, maybe before you were even born that was true, for a few years. In the wild, life was dangerous, and we took what pleasure was to be had, often after a brush with death. It rare we were able to, though. Always more danger.”

Such was not unknown to Boromir. He nodded, and whuffed agreement. “There’s more to life than sex. Life itself, for one thing. And the... sound, Aragorn? By whichever name. Just a toy? Or is it a control mechanism for you?”

Thinking about that, Aragorn rolled to his side, up on one elbow, and gazed down into his lover’s face. Even in the twilight of their deep quarters, nothing quenched the green fire. “Both, and more. Since the time I used it on myself that once, I’ve wanted to do it to someone. Not for healing, but for play, for a demonstration of caring and commitment. A mangy Ranger covered in orc blood and weeks of dirt has no business touching such vulnerable things. But a King... a King might be one to ply such exquisite torture... on the one he loves. And as for his subject, it would be a great show of trust. It was.” His eyes burned cobalt with the deep fulfillment of it all.

“You’re making me blush,” Boromir told him. It was true; his cheeks burned. He wasn’t sure if it was from the overabundance of feeling or because it was so out-of-character. “If I didn’t know better I’d think you were an Elf maiden to say such things. Not that I’d know,” he amended quickly. His eyes darted to the side. It was too intense to share a look for so long.

“An Elf would not have to say. A man needs to hear with his ears. This, I learned. Although,” Aragorn chuckled, “I do not plan on repeating ‘love and trust’ and all those things very often. It is rather... maidenly. If true. I might have squirmed, myself.” He laughed, looking around their virtually soundproof quarters. “Or it could be that I want to hold you down and make you scream and cum against your will - because it’s decadent, and you were made for it.”

“Well, let’s not tell our mothers that.” Boromir alluded again to their earlier exchange.

“I have a feeling they’d understand, strangely.”

Fin.


End file.
